A West Virginia-born author pens an inspiring book about dealing with imposter syndrome and recognizing that self-doubt is proof you’re actually on the right path.
At any moment, I’m convinced someone is going to walk into the room, tap me on the shoulder, and say, “Hey…we’ve reviewed everything about you. And that review pointed to a mistake we made. We should have never hired you. So, to fix our mistake, there’s the door. Please use it to leave immediately and never come back.”
They’ll have done their homework. They’ll know about the sixth-grade assignment I said my dog ate. They’ll know I spent most of my Navy career unclogging toilets on a ship with 800 other guys and not heroically storming the beaches of some great world enemy. They’ll know about the jobs I fumbled, the conversations I tripped through, and my general pattern of figuring things out after the opportunity has already passed.
All of it will confirm the feeling that has always haunted me: I don’t belong in the rooms where I sit.
I used to think that feeling meant something specific. That it was pointing to a gap I hadn’t closed yet. Some kind of knowledge or confidence that everyone else had but I didn’t. I attacked that feeling like something I needed to manage around, through, and over.
Looking back, this feeling was deeper than my career and started well before I entered the workforce.
I grew up understanding success as something not to be trusted and ultimately reserved for everyone but me. No one sat me down and said that outright; it just showed up in how things worked in my small Appalachian town.
When something went right, I didn’t linger there. I moved past it. Maybe I made a self-deprecating joke. Maybe I pointed out what could’ve gone better. Getting ahead felt fine, but acting like I belonged there didn’t.
So, when I started finding myself in rooms lined with board tables and whiteboards instead of coffee tables and TV sets, the adjustment wasn’t understanding the work. It was contributing to it. Promotions, bigger conversations, and more responsibility all entered my life. But my internal voice always ensured I never fully embraced any of it.
Instead of thinking, “I earned this,” my mind convinced me it was just a matter of time before there was a public announcement about my fraudulence. So, I tried to hide my self-perceived fraudulence by over-preparing, over-analyzing, and staying quiet a little longer than I should have.
At some point, I realized this was more than insecurity. It had structure. The same pattern showed up over and over again.
If I doubt myself, it must mean I don’t belong. But if I don’t doubt myself, then I must be missing something. Or worse, I’m the only one who doesn’t see the problem.
That loop followed me everywhere. It showed up early in my career, during routine tasks, when my mind made them seem insurmountable. It showed up in the way I parented. It showed up in hobbies, like my pursuit of creating music. And years later, in boardrooms where, on paper, I had every reason to be there.
Different rooms. Same voice.
My life had been defined by a strange outcome. Reading the imposter feeling as a warning instead of a signal caused me to pull back. I stayed where I felt safe. Right where the voice was quiet enough to manage. As a result, I stopped chasing the interesting parts of life.
There’s one more twist. I noticed that the lying voice inside my head got louder when things mattered more.
Eventually, I stopped trying to get rid of the feeling and started noticing it instead.
When it showed up. What set it off. How loud it got. It didn’t take long to see that the more something mattered, the louder the voice got.
I don’t believe I am alone in this dynamic. Anyone not suffering from psychopathy has experienced it at least a couple of times somewhere in their life. I’m comforted by the fact that I’m not the only one whose mind lies to them. And we all have some work to do.
Because if every success is dismissed and every mistake is treated as proof we don’t belong, then there’s no actual path to belonging. There’s just a moving standard that never quite lets us in while keeping us trapped from all life has to offer…and all we have to offer to others.
I’ve also learned this feeling never goes away. It still shows up. Still makes its case.
However, it doesn’t carry the same weight anymore.
That’s enough to stay in the room.
Find your copy of I Can’t Believe They Let Me In: Confronting Imposter Syndrome and Letting Yourself In wherever you buy books.
